The Despair of Warcraft
by Vaesinis
Summary: Stories of the most tragic events in the history of Azeroth. T because there's no sex and K is for sissies.
1. Savina

Savina

Savina could feel things, yet she knew she could not. The grip of cold steel. The warmth of fresh blood. The silence of a quiet death. She had felt these before, but no longer. They had left her life, along with life itself. Kaesinis had tried to explain it once, the phantom memories of feeling that lingered long after the ability to feel is gone. Of course, years of rigorous training has cleansed her of such things, even before…

Savina put the thought out of her mind; there was a mission to do. She pushed the corpse off of her dagger and let it fall to the ground with a soft thud. She crept away silently, slipping into the shadows to await the next patrol.

The next guard approached from the west. A Night Elf female armed with two glaives. Even though the Night Elf was covered in steel plated body armor, she didn't make a sound as she moved through the underbrush on her patrol. She passed right in front of Savina, alert for danger yet unaware of the hidden rogue or fallen comrade only a few feet away.

Only when the guard's back was turned did an opening reveal itself to the lurking assassin: a small gap on the back of her neck between her helm and breastplate. Savina took it.

The ambush was over before it began. Savina struck faster than lightning, driving a long, straight dagger into the gap between the armor. It cut through leather padding, skin, flesh, bone, and vertebrae, coming out through the guard's windpipe and jugular. The body went limp, and Savina lowered it gently to the ground, careful not to rattle the steel armor as she withdrew her weapon. A clean kill.

She waited a little while longer to make sure there were no more perimeter guards, then cautiously picked her way through the trees and into the Darnassian camp.

Kaesinis had mentioned why the Night Elves were here, in southern Quel'thalas, the region known as the Ghostlands. Something to do with leylines, spying on Silvermoon and a lot of other arcane gibberish she didn't understand. But she could care less about that; all she cared was that she had been ordered to take them out and retrieve whatever plans or information she could. And, most importantly of all, she was told to do "whatever you see fit." Those were her favorite orders.

Savina reached the camp and crouched down behind a bush, parting the leaves only enough so that she could see out. There were seven Night Elves sitting around a fire; six, all female, were in metal armor with glaives attached to their belts, the same as the dead patrollers. The other one, a male, was dressed in a simple leather jerkin and carried a worn wooden stave.

Six Sentinels and a druid. Savina checked her dagger and swords, then stealthily moved towards her targets. She would have to take down as many Sentinels as possible before she set off the alarm; she was confident in her abilities, but sustained combat with heavily armed and trained warriors did not appeal to her.

She was behind one of the guards, undetected in the shadow of one of the camp's tents. She waited until the perfect moment, still as the night, silent as lurking death.

Quickly, silently, effortlessly, she slid her dagger into the back of the Night Elf's neck. Perfect execution. She withdrew the dagger and slipped back into the shadows before the group knew that anything had happened. She had her dagger in a second body before the first touched the ground. A second sentinel was dead before the rest took notice, and by then Savina's short sword was out and gouging through steel body armor. By the time the fight truly started, the Darnassians had lost nearly half of their numbers.

The three remaining Sentinels charged her, glaives drawn and slashing through the air. They were graceful in their technique, perfect in their form, disciplined soldiers. They had no doubt fought in many battles, ending the life of skilled warriors in intense combat.

They had not a chance against her.

Savina sidestepped their blades almost effortlessly, then cut off one of their heads, sending it flying with a flick of her sword. The others hesitated for just a moment, shocked at the ease with which one of their comrades had been dispatched. Their brief pause was all that Savina needed to press the advantage.

She was faster, stronger, and better trained. The last came from years of hard work and rigorous drills in the Silvermoon Ranger corps. The first two…those were from Arthas…

* * *

_An elf crept through the ruins of a once tranquil village, carefully on the look out for patrols. She hadn't met any resistance so far, and expected few; there was no need for them to post many guards. The forces she was tracking had been marching through Quel'thalas almost unopposed, leaving the land sick and blackened in their wake, like a dead scar, and thick, green mist hugged the ground, giving everything a sickening tint._

_ Savina pulled her black bandana tighter around her face, thankful for the filter from the plague ridden air. The invaders had desecrated her homeland with their unholy campaign, but hopefully her mission would end it._

_ Black shapes moved in the distance, hazy shadows against the green night air. Her objective was in sight, but she stifled the urge to quicken her pace; there was no need to rush, not now, not so close to her goal._

_ Everyone thought that that this village had been safe behind the runestone's protective magic, and no move had been made to evacuate it or any of the other settlements along the Elrendar river. But somehow, Arthas had found a way through the ancient magical barrier that had protected Quel'thalas for centuries, and the villagers had paid the price for their leader's overconfidence. Over a thousand had died in this village alone, easily slaughtered by Arthas's army._

_ But the worse thing about the ruined village was not the destruction that the invading forces had wrought, but the lack of Elvin bodies. Or, at least, dead Elvin bodies._

_ One of the figures emerged from the mist and into full view, and, for one of the few times in her life, Savina felt a cold chill run down her spine. She used to be a High Elf; that was for sure. Her long, pointed ears were unmistakable, but her skin was too pale, even for her kind. And half of the flesh on her chest had been torn away. Flies buzzed in and around her exposed organs, feasting on the rotting flesh._

_ Savina fought back the bile rising up her throat and changed her course to avoid the zombie. There were thousands, if not a million more like her, and killing one was not worth setting off an alarm for the rest of the undead horde. She had a target to find, and the fate of her people may well rest on the success of her mission._

_ Sneaking into the camp was surprisingly easy. None of the wandering ghouls seemed very alert, and the ones that wandered around the wreckage did so in no understandable patrolling pattern. In fact, there were long stretches of time when a whole stretch of open ground was devoid of undead, allowing her to make her way quickly and steadily towards the army's center, which, dragonhawk aerial reconnaissance had informer her of, was the location where her target usually was._

_ A building rose out of the ruins, much taller than the rubble around it, though mainly because it was one of the few still standing. Savina recognized it even in its recently desecrated state; the village's town hall, no doubt now serving as the Undead's headquarters. She made her way towards it, thanking the Light that most of the undead in the area were on the other sides of the building and away from her path._

_ There were two guards stationed at the door, not former citizens like the ghouls that roamed the village streets, but hulking abominations sewn together from the corpses of various animals and wielding various butcher's instruments. Each one was a full head taller than her and probably five times her size. If she was forced to fight either of them, then her mission would most likely end with her joining the ranks of the undead on their continued march towards Silvermoon, and that was not an option._

_ Then she saw a large crack in the building's edifice, just large enough for her to squeeze through, and she let a small whisper of thanks pass through her lips. Truly the light was with her in her righteous task of ending this foul scourge. She slipped into the crack, bypassing the monstrosities guarding the main entrance and emerging in an ante chamber outside what used to be the village administrator's office. The room's door was shattered, some still attacked to the wall by hinges while most lay strewn across the floor._

_ There was no doubt in Savina's mind where Arthas was. He was a vain and egotistical bastard who had slain his own father to take the throne of Lordaeron and sold his soul for command of the undead Scourge. Even in the ruins of a small village, a man like him would be in the most prestigious place possible to help accommodate his megalomania. She checked to make sure her dagger and swords were ready, then quietly entered the room through the broken doorway._

_ Arthas was sitting in a high backed wooden chair, one hand resting on a massive blade with glowing blue runes. A cold mist permeated the air, draining all the warmth from her body. The leader of the undead smiled._

_ It was a trap. She had been lured here, a lamb to the slaughter. It all seemed so obvious to her now. She cursed herself for her stupidity, cursed the light for abandoning her, and cursed the Death Knight sitting in front of her, smiling. She was dead now, her cover had been blown; in fact, it had never been there at all. There was no way for her to get out alive. The best she could do was complete her mission and take Arthas down with her._

_ Savina flung herself at Arthas, blades drawn and ready to kill. Strong hands grabbed her shoulders and pinned her to the ground; the bony hands of two ghouls that she been lurking in the dark corners. She struggled against their grips, kicking their rotting bodies with all her might, but their hold was too strong and they felt no pain from her blows. Arthas rose, still smiling, and pointed his sinister blade at her throat._

_ "You will serve me well, elf." Unholy energy ripped through her body. Her life faded. _

_ She should have ended there, but her twisted soul remained, trapped in agony inside her cold, dead corpse._

* * *

Six Night Elf Sentinel corpses were scattered across the camp. Two bodies remained standing, one living with the torment of having his arms cut to stumps, the other undead, rid of feeling long ago. The druid fell against a tree and slumped to the ground, howling in pitiful pain, mourning the loss of his arms. Blood poured from the amputated limbs, gradually draining him dry. That was not good; he was no use to her dead.

Savina reached for her belt and grabbed the handle of one of her dagger. As she withdrew the blade, flames flickered into life, magical fire clinging to the steel. Pitilessly, she pressed the flat edge of the fiery dagger against the druid's wounds, cauterizing it shut. The Night Elf's screams of pain cut through the still night air, but Savina had already dispatched anyone who might care. The first wound sealed, she moved on to the second one. Again the druid wailed in pure, unadulterated anguish.

She sheathed her burning dagger, then yanked on the sobbing Night Elf's shirt and pulled him forward, close enough so that he could see the maggot squirming in her eye.

"Where are the plans?" Savina asked, her voice harsh and rusty from decay and weeks of going unused. He quivered for a moment, then weakly pointed one of his bloody stumps towards a tent. She released her grip, letting him fall back against the tree to whimper and whine over the loss of his arms.

She found the plans easily in a box stamped with the official mark of Darnassus. She slid them into her pack, and then searched the tents for anything else that might be useful. She found a few herbs, rare specimens from Kalimdor that the Apothecaries might enjoy brewing new poisons out of, but otherwise nothing else was of interest.

She walked back to the Night Elf and stared down at him. He looked into her eyes, his watering in pain. His face was soft and frightened, begging for mercy.

In one fluid motion, she drew he blade, severed his head, and sheathed her sword. The butchered body fell to the ground, soaking in a pool of its own blood.

She felt nothing.


	2. Live

Live

He found it easily; all he had to do was ask, and he was pointed in the direction of the smoldering ruins of the Chapel of the Crimson Flame. Outside, the bodies of those who had fallen to the Ebon Blade were piled high: Argent Dawn, Scarlet Crusade, innocent peasants, all heaped together in a mound, waiting for either the torch of the cremator or the hand of the necromancer. He began to rummage through the corpses, tossing aside the bodies of those he and his brethren had slain, that he had murdered heartlessly, willingly, gladly. He recognized none of the faces he saw, but he imagined each one of them falling to his blade; he relived each kill in his mind, once for every face, the thrill of cold steel slicing through warm flesh and bone pulsating through his body again and again.

He felt no guilt. Maybe a twinge of pity, but nothing more, even for those he had personally cut down, for if it hadn't been his hand holding the blade, it would've been another's. Fate had cast these poor souls into the abyss, not him. He had no soul left with which to care for the multitude. But one of them…one body…one life lost within the pile…

After five minutes of digging, he found her. She had been deep enough to have been disfigured by the weight of the corpses on top of her, but Lev still recognized her face, and would remember it for the rest of his life.

"Caitlyn…" he whispered under his breath, the only words he could bring forth to lament the woman who he had loved and slain. Gently, he removed her from the pile, pushing aside the other bodies. One of the lifeless arms pinned her down, holding her firmly in its rigor, preventing her from leaving her fellow dead. Lev drew his sword and hacked at the objecting limb, severing it and freeing Caitlyn from the grasp of the dead. He held her body in his arms for a few seconds, the press of its cold skin against his arms and chest seeming to drain away what little warmth was in him. Tenderly, he laid her down at the foot of the mountain of the dead, placing her limbs so that, if he blotted out the hole in her heart that he had driven his blade, he could pretend that she was just sleeping, that she would wake up, that everything would be okay.

As he looked at Caitlyn's still form, John's eyes and mind glazed over. Every memory he had of her, every memory of them together, poured into his mind; he remembered them running along the coast, slinging pebbles at murlocs; riding horses through the fields; sitting together beside a warm fire in the winter, watching the land outside their window turn white; standing in the town square as survivors recalled how their families had been slain and then risen up against them; standing side by side as they fought the Scourge; watching her ride away as he stayed to face certain death; driving his sword into her heart as tears ran down her face.

"If I am to be damned," John decreed, his voice shaking with determination. "Then let my damnation save others." The dark magic of death, which he had so recently served as an instrument of, poured into him. It surged in and around his being, threatening to engulf him, to draw his mind back into its sway. Darkness swirled around him, clouding his mind, trying to blot out the dim flicker of hope that Commander Mograine had kindled from the ashes of a lost soul.

He thought of Caitlyn's face, and the light burst forth, driving back the darkness. He would not longer be a servant to death; he would bend it to his will. The magic submitted, cowering before the onslaught of his reignited will. Lev focused it into his blade, then directed it into Caitlyn. Black and purple light wrapped around her, pulsed through her, granting motion to her dormant body.

John lowered his sword and watched as picked herself off the ground, rising onto her feet, standing on her own. She lifted her head, and her eyes were open, their brilliant blue depths gazing at him. A tear formed in the corner of his eye and rolled down his check. His lips quivered as he soundlessly formed her name, too overcome to bring forth sound. He had done it. For a few moments they watched each other silently, and Lev savored the moment, his heart fluttering, his soul redeemed, his love returned. He shook with unrestrained joy as her lips began to move, and he waited with bated breath for her to whisper his name, to forgive him for killing her, to thank him for bringing her back, to tell him that she loved him.

The jaw fell open and hissed, "Yeessssss masssssster?"

John's world shattered. His heart felt like it had stopped beating. A horrible cold swept through the cavern where his soul once was.

It was just a ghoul. He hadn't brought her back. He fell to one knee, the blow knocking the strength out of him. She was gone. Gone forever. And he had sent her there. The sole tear of joy was washed away by the flood of misery that poured down his face. He stared at the ground, wishing he was dead and buried beneath it instead of living in the hell his actions had created.

Slowly, he lifted his head, forcing his gaze upon that which he had wrought, seeking some faint trace of hope in her face. But as he looked, he realized that there was nothing left of Caitlyn in the body that stood before him. Her soul was gone, cast into the abyss, and there was nothing he could do to bring it back.

The ghoul stared back at him, loyally watching its master, awaiting his every command. He looked into its soulless eyes and tasted bile in his throat: not only had he slain her, but now he had desecrated her body, turned her into one of the monsters she had fought to destroy. Disgust and hatred welled up inside him, tearing apart the hope he had so recently been filled with. As he looked at the aberration, it became the focus for his anger. He poured every ounce of rage and revulsion he had for himself into the walking corpse. As he looked at it, he thought he could see its lifeless mouth twist into a frown, as if it could sense his displeasure with it. It seemed to swell before his eyes, as though filled with all of his pain and sorrow, bulging like a bloated balloon.

And then it exploded.

Hunks of flesh flew threw the air, and the force of the blast knocked Lev sprawling on his back. Jagged fragments of bone drove themselves into his body, and he screamed as the pain shot through him. In the aftermath, he laid still on the ground, listening to the ringing in his ears and feeling every piece of bloody shrapnel lodged in his body. He waited to feel the twinge of death from something vital that had been wounded, but it never came.

Carefully, he lifted himself into a seated position, gritting his teeth at the pain the movement caused. He looked down and saw half a femur protruding from his side, and he yanked it out forcefully, hoping for the rush of blood that would pour from the wound and drain him of his sins. But the blood failed to gush; it froze as it touched the air, clotting itself with ice.

Even by its absence, Death held him in its sway.

He turned his gaze now towards the pile of bodies, to where Caitlyn—no, not Caitlyn, it had only been a ghoul; a mindless, soulless ghoul—had only a minute ago been standing. All that was left of it were its feet tossed about a small crater, jagged stumps of its legs protruding from torn boots. The mound of bodies had been toppled by the blast, and what was once a neat pile was now strewn across the ground.

There was no evidence left that a person named Caitlyn had ever lived, save for the memories in John's mind. These now raced through his consciousness again, until he stuck on one: her face right before he killed her.

John's sword had fallen from his hands, and he picked it up now. He gazed at it, remembering how it looked when it had been covered in Caitlyn's blood. Then he returned his blade to its sheath.

_She had died with one wish, one final hope. _

He took one last look at the countless dead strewed out before him, composed of those he had killed. They had fought and died for the same hope as Caitlyn, the same dream that all of them shared

_He had not taken her life: she had given it to him. _

He turned away from the dead, but did not turn his back on them. He would remember them forever. Their dream would be his mission. His hand would be guided by the will of the dead. He walked away from the grisly scene not as the broken man he had been when he had arrived, but a new man, a whole man, one with a purpose.

_Her last word echoed through his mind: _

"_Live_."


	3. Silvermoon

Silvermoon

Darkness loomed over the High Elf capital of Silvermoon. It seemed almost yesterday that the Undead Scourge had arrived at the gates of Quel'thalas, breaking through the runestones that had held off the Amani Trolls for thousands of years. All of their defenses had failed. Even the High Elves' Ranger General, Sylvanas Windrunner, had fallen…and now she marched against her homeland, a twisted banshee, her spirit stolen by undeath.

The horde of Undead was closing in on the walls of Silvermoon now, intent on its destruction. But they had one more obstacle left: the army of Quel'thalas, the legion of High Elves that had protected their nation for centuries. They would not give up without a fight.

One of the High Elves in the front lines tightened his grip on his broadsword as the enemy approached. He was tall and rugged, his bright yellow hair cut into short spikes that fit neatly underneath his helm. His armor covered him almost entirely, a heavily polish steel skin adorned with golden ruins. He took a deep breath, and, as he breathed out, the golden runes on his armor glowed with holy Light, the magic of a paladin. He turned to the Elf behind him and said, "Ready, Kaesinis?"

"Don't worry, Raiv'zel, I'm ready," Kaesinis said with a grim chuckle. Kaesinis was a stark contrast to Raiv'zel; his hair was long and flowed onto his back, his two long, tentacle-like bangs framing his face. Instead of heavy steel armor, he wore a rich silk robe intertwined with mana-laced spell thread that gave him a faint blue aura. A short dagger hung in his belt, pitifully small compared to Raiv'zel's broadsword, but the undersized blade glowed with a cold, blue glow. Kaesinis's hands crackled with mana, the mage barely able to contain his anxiousness.

They were a mage-paladin team, one of the many two man teams of High Elves that spread throughout the defenders. They had fought together against Trolls, Orcs, Ogres and worse over the centuries they had known each other. But now they faced a much dire threat: less than a mile ahead of them, the Undead were advancing.

The Undead charged with a sickening cry. Ghouls, walking corpses, many of whom were fallen warriors who had already fallen to the Undead Scourge, formed the first wave of the undead swarm. They surged forward on all fours, rotting flesh falling off their bones as they mindlessly charged.

Raiv'zel positioned himself in front of Kaesinis, his broadsword the only thing standing in the way of his mage charge and the hordes of walking corpses. Behind him, Kaesinis drew magic into his hands, altering it from an intangible force into a dense, frozen ball. Around them, the rest of the High Elf defenders prepared similarly as they awaited the first wave of the enemy.

A ghoul in the front row of Undead quickened its pace and sprinted ahead of the rest of the host, its lifeless eyes fixed squarely on Raiv'zel. The ghoul covered its last few yards in a giant bound, its jagged teeth slavering as it smelled living flesh. Raiv'zel's sword glowed bright with the Light and flashed in an arc, the blessed metal searing through tainted flesh. The ghoul's remaining tissue ignited as the holy magic burned through it; it was ashes before it hit the ground.

The next ghouls barreled down on the Elvin defenders en mass, a hapless few corpses trampled into the ground by the more zealous zombies as they all dashed forward.

When the bulk of the Undead were within ten yards, an officer screamed "FIRE!" As the order came down the line, Kaesinis and the rest of the High Elf mages in the second row released their spells at the enemy. Kaesinis's ball of ice shot forward leaving a streak of frozen water vapor behind it. The ball hit a ghoul square in the chest and punched through its rotted ribcage into the zombie behind it. As it hit the second ghoul, Kaesinis said the second part of the spell. The frozen mana in the ball detonated, sending shards of jagged ice in all directions. The ghoul it hit initially was torn to pieces and those closed to it were shredded by the icy shrapnel.

The rest of the fire wave of Undead shared a similar fate, either cut to ribbons by ice mages or burnt to ashes by those spell casters who preferred fire. The remaining ghouls continued on mindlessly and were cut down by the front row of warriors.

The High Elves did not stop to celebrate their small victory; behind the field of felled Undead, another wave was coming. This time though, there were other horrors besides ghouls; amidst the swarming corpses, crude mechanical contraptions rolled forward billowing clouds of green rot behind them. Walking astride the machines were humans dressed in dark robes carrying staffs topped with animal skulls and dark talismans. Every now and then, one of the humans would stop and point his staff at a fallen ghoul that had been crushed beneath his mindless brethren. The human would chant a few dark words and green magic would seethe from his staff into the corpse, awakening the skeleton within to stand and marched forward.

"Necromancers," spat Raiv'zel, his armor glowing as his rage built.

"See what happens when you teach mortals magic?" sneered Kaesinis. He brought his hands together and began crafting a new spell. "They don't learn it properly."

The new Ghouls came just as the first, mindlessly throwing themselves at the enemy. But the necromancers and the machines held back from the rest of the wave. The High Elves dealt with the second wave of Ghouls the same as they had with the first, but this time, as the mages release their spells into the ranks of zombies, the necromancers acted. A corpse was loaded onto a long arm of the machines, and after a creaking of ill machine gears, the arm shot forward and flung the rotting projectile forward, but not before the necromancers cast their spells. As the bodies flew forward, the necromancer's spell seeped into the lifeless forms, and infesting the already rotting flesh with dark mana.

The diseased projectiles flew through the air, leaving clouds of plague trailing in their wake. The archers positioned in the High Elf host trained their arrows and let them fly, their arrowheads coated in magic. When two missiles collided, the spells in the arrow released, obliterating the corpses with arcane energy. But even with the excellent aim of the archers, some bodies still landed in the High Elf ranks. They exploded where they landed, showering the Elves with plagued bits of flesh and blood. The gore began to spread decay on anything it touched. Those covered with the fetid matter died instantly.

With their first distraction of Ghouls gone, the necromancers turned to the machines. They opened holds in the contraptions, and fresh corpses spilled out. The human spellcasters poured their magic into the bodies to animate them, and within a few seconds a new third wave of Undead began to take to their feet and form around the necromancers and their meat wagons.

Kaesinis watched the whole thing, the spell he had been preparing unfired and surging with mana. Now that he knew why the necromancers had held back, he knew the way to inflict maximum damage. He released the spell, but instead of directing it as a ball of ice as he had the first one, he gave this new one a different purpose. Above the nearest cluster of Undead and their machine, he opened a portal between his magic and the sky above his targets. He discharged the rest of his spell into the portal, and from above the Undead large shards of ice began to fall. The magic blizzard tore into them, rending flesh, sheering bone and tearing the machines to scrap metal. Other mages followed Kaesinis's lead, and the third wave of Undead was engulfed in blizzards and pillars of fire before it could begin its march.

But the triumph was short lived. As soon as the dust had cleared, a new swarm appeared, trampling over the remains of their predecessors. The ghouls, necromancers and meat wagons were joined by hulking abominations, oversize monstrosities that seeped fetid blood and billowed clouds of disease and plague from their open wounds. The new horde was larger than all the others combined, the Scourge's main force, intent on breaking the High Elf's lines.

"Damn," cursed someone in the line. "This isn't good. We're outnumbered at least two to one." The nervous elf was quickly shushed; such thoughts would not help them now.

Kaesinis surveyed the scene calmly as he drew the magic to him to prepare his next spell. "Are you ready, Raiv'zel?" asked the mage once again.

The Paladin's armor glowed brightly as he let the holy light sure up his defenses and spread across to the other Elves around them, bathing them all in a warm glow. "Ready, Kaesinis."

Once again, the ghouls reached the Elves first, with plague infested corpses flying high over their heads. The rotting projectiles were mostly shot down, but those that got through wrecked havoc where they landed. To add to the troubles, more ghouls got through to the front rank of warriors as the mages conserved their mana for the rest of the Undead coming up behind them. One or two unlucky elves fell as the zombies got in a lucky bite or claw, but the line held against the first assault. And then the abominations hit.

The first few were assailed by magic, but spells that would have annihilated a ghoul only tore a chunk out of the mass of flesh, barely hindering its advance. A few of the monster fell, their heads sheared off with ice or incinerated by fire. Kaesinis scored a direct hit, succeeding in crushing his target's skull with a compact ball of ice that kept going, finally landing in the bowls of a meat wagon before the mage detonated it, wiping out the machine and its necromancers.

The abominations that reached the High Elf ranks set upon the defenders with bloody cleavers and meat hooks as they choked those around them with their clouds of disease. Behind them, more ghouls surged forth and leapt into the disarrayed Elves, snarling and salivating as their twisted jaws tasted warm blood.

Raiv'zel stared down an approaching abomination, dodging its sickle shaped hook and parrying the beast's cleaver. With a burst of Light enhanced strength, Raiv'zel rammed his blessed blade into the abomination. The rotting flesh burned on contact with the paladin's sword, and the creature let out a last gargling cry before the unholy spell animating it was unraveled by the holy magic Raiv'zel drove into it.

As Raiv'zel tried to pull his sword from the felled beast, a ghoul bounded towards the paladin and grabbed his armor. But before the undead could sink his teeth into the Elf, the holy magic wrapped around Raiv'zel's armor burned the ghoul's flesh on contact. The zombie jumped back in pain, only to be caught in the gut by a ball of ice thrown by Kaesinis. The spell carried the ghoul back into its brood where it detonated, blowing a small dent in the undead ranks. But the mass continued to plow forward heedlessly.

Raiv'zel readied his sword in time for the next ghouls, one of which he sliced in half as a flash of holy Light cremated another. Behind him, Kaesinis rapid fired balls of ice into the undead, blowing chunks of rotting flesh into the salivating mouths of the other zombies. But even as the two of them held out against the onslaught, other defenders were not so lucky. Even as the latest force of Undead dwindled, dashed against the rocks of the High Elves' resolve, more came to take their place. One by one, the defenders started to fall, caught underneath the rushing tide of walking corpses.

Then, a shriek rang out across the battlefield. From above, winged creatures flew towards the defenders. The Elvin archer's trained their bows and let fly, scoring hits on some of the creatures and knocking them from the sky. One of them landed close to Kaesinis, and from the corner of his eye he saw was it was: a gargoyle, a bat-like monster with sharp talons and vicious fangs. The monster's wing was blown off by the arrow's magic, and even though it had fallen from the sky, the beast was still alive. It shrieked and twitched a few times, then its hide turned to grey stone and its body froze. Its stump of a wing began to grow back before the mage's eyes. Kaesinis quickly formed a lance of ice and rammed it into the beast's chest, trying to kill it before it could recuperate. The magic ice shattered against the tough stone skin.

"Raiv'zel!" The paladin turned and saw the fallen beast. "Finish it!" Raiv'zel cut through the ghoul he had been dealing with, then ran over to the gargoyle and impaled it with his sword. The stone gave way to the blessed metal, and the beast shrieked before crumbling to dust.

The gargoyles continued to circle despite the archers, swooping down on the defending army, grasping an elf in its talons and carrying it up towards the sky, where they would either rip the hapless soldier to pieces or send him plummeting to his doom on the ground below.

Another cry vibrated through the sky, but this one came from behind the walls of Silvermoon. Dragonhawk riders, High Elf defenders riding the giant, brightly colored birds that the High Elves had bred since the founding of Quel'thalas, came out from the walls of Silvermoon to engage the gargoyles with spells and sharp lances. Freed from having to keep their bows trained on the sky, the archers sent their bolts into the abominations to toward above the other undead, attempting to fell them before they could inflict damage.

Kaesinis held back a few ghouls with sprays of ice shards as Raiv'zel got back into his position in the line, though it could barely be called that. Most of the front ranks were dead now, leaving the mages to deal with not only the charging Undead, but the bodies of their fallen comrades that were now taking to their feet, the foul plague of undeath spread by the abominations twisting the fallen High Elves into the mindless ghouls they had fought against.

Despite their dwindling numbers, the High Elves continued to fight with all they had. Their lines shattered and the chain of command broken, the defenders broke off into groups, archers and mages standing in the center of a circle of the remaining warriors and paladins. The mages coordinated their fire, bringing down abominations with bursts of magic that felled the large undead and slew the smaller zombies close to them.

But every now and then an abomination would shatter a ring of defense, letting the ghouls in to swarm over the spellcasters, or a gargoyle would swoop in to tear the archers apart with their claws and fangs. The Dragonhawk riders attempted to keep the gargoyles at bay, but they were outnumbered and quickly pushed back, forced to defend the inner walls of Silvermoon from the marauding monsters. And every time the Undead won a skirmish, the defeated Elves would be raised by the necromancers to replace the ghouls that they had slain in life.

Kaesinis and Raiv'zel were not lucky enough to find a group; before their eyes they had watched as their comrades were cut down all around them. But they fought on, their bodies wrapped in Raiv'zel's Light as the paladin carved through the undead and Kaesinis threw spell after spell.

Anywhere else, the vast amount of spells that Kaesinis had cast would have drained him of his stores of mana. But he was in Quel'thalas, at the gates to Silvermoon, defending his nation. A few miles behind them, past the high walls, defended by the most powerful golems that the High Elves could ever create, was the Sunwell, the source of the Elves' magic. Kaesinis could feel it empowering him, feeding him, giving him all the mana he could ever need. As long as he could draw from the Sunwell, he would never run out of mana.

Filled with the Light, Raiv'zel knew that he could fight on as long as his body was whole, and each ghoul he incinerated or abomination he struck down strengthened his resolve. He would not falter now, in his homeland's time of need. He was bound by oath not only to Quel'thalas, but also, as a paladin of the Knight of the Silver Hand, to defeat the dark forces in the name of the Light. He held that ideal in his head as he fought on, holding himself against the stream of Undead.

Kaesinis and Raiv'zel fought back to back now, spinning around so that Raiv'zel could bring his sword to bear against approaching enemies making Kaesinis free to pick off any abominations or gargoyles that got too close.

Suddenly, Kaesinis's strength began to waver. He felt it slightly at first, a small fatigue in the back of his mind. Then it grew stronger, and his spells grew weaker. The steady flow of mana from the Sunwell…it had stopped. The mage turned his head towards Silvermoon, towards the Court of the Sunwell. The sky had darkened. Instead of the warm radiance of the eternal fountain of magic that give the High Elves their magic, through strength, and their immortality, there was a cold dread.

An abomination lumbered forward from the undead ranks, blood cleaver raised and ready to strike. Kaesinis's arm shot out and, with instinct overriding the knowledge of his dwindling strength, he cast a bolt of frost at the abomination's head. The ball of ice shards tore through the abomination's head and sent him falling to the ground, but it came at a high cost.

The spell had exhausted Kaesinis's remaining mana. In a place where there had always been a feeling of power full to burst, there was now emptiness. He could feel his limbs wavering underneath him. Suddenly the world faded to black. The mage lost consciousness.

Raiv'zel watched in horror as Kaesinis fell. Without hesitation, he grabbed the mage and flung him over his shoulder, his friend's need overriding the truth that he would now be fighting inhibited. He drove his sword into the ground, filling the soil with his holy mana. The consecrated earth glowed with the power of the Light, burning through the undead surrounding the paladin. The surrounding area temporarily cleared, Raiv'zel threw up a divine shield around him and Kaesinis, wrapping them in a bubble of Light. Knowing that the shield would not hold, Raiv'zel ran as fast as he could through the throngs of undead, rotting claws scrapping vainly against the barrier as the ghouls tried to break through to the living flesh beneath.

Here and there a High Elf or two held out, but as Raiv'zel rushed to get Kaesinis to safety, he saw each of them fall, either to an Undead's attack or to the same sudden fatigue that had gripped Kaesinis. His eyes watered with tears as he saw soldiers, many of whom he had know and all of which were his brothers in arms, fell one by one. But there was nothing he could do now; the army was broken and routed. All he could do now as get himself and his charge to safety, to live to fight another day.

Raiv'zel didn't stop even after he had quit running into Undead. He had never run from a battle before, never in his whole life, and even though it was the dishonorable thing to do, sanity overrode honor.

The battle was lost; the Sunwell was lost; Silvermoon was lost; Quel'thalas was lost; all was lost.

* * *

Author's note:

Thank you for reading! This will be the last of my stories set in the World of Warcraft. I've since stopped playing dude to school and such, so it's been hard to get inspired/do in-game research. If you like my style, however, please check out my other stories, which includes a few original ones on my fictionpress page (the link to which is on my profile page) and a Pokemon fanfic that I'm working on where I'm trying to bring some dark realism to the series.

Thanks again,

Vaesinis


End file.
